


From Below

by SierraBravo



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1800s, Agender Crowley, Human AU, M/M, Other, Sea Snake Crowley, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Sort Of, mer-person crowley, undoubtedly rife with historical inaccuracies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29989074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SierraBravo/pseuds/SierraBravo
Summary: Aziraphale is a bookseller in Southern England, satisfied with what his life has brought him, excepting perhaps a hint of loneliness. Crowley is a half sea snake half human who is upset to find themself in the cool waters of England. Clearly, it's meant to be.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 51
Kudos: 58





	1. First Meeting

The sun is bright above, the summer day unusually warm, even here in the South. Aziraphale, having closed his shop for the afternoon, heads down towards the beach, a book in one hand, a rolled up blanket under his arm. Even someone as fond of the indoors as himself has to get out in weather as fine as this, he reasons, especially when it’s an excuse to shoo away whatever customers linger in his shop. It wasn’t many today, the weather being too fine to wander in the darkness and slightly unpleasant smell of his bookshop. It’s engineered perfectly to avoid attracting the kind of customers who actually buy his books. The best kind of customer, he finds, is the one who simply wants someone to talk about books with, or perhaps is only seeking shelter from the rain.

The actual beach, the one which is far enough from the docks to not be terribly noisy, is a bit of a walk, but he doesn’t mind. He hopes he is early enough to find a quiet spot, but those hopes are dashed when he sees people spread out across all of it. There are children running and shouting, youths loudly talking, picnic baskets where he can spy bottles of wine sticking out, and much as he agrees and approves in theory, that is simply going to lead to more noise, and that will simply not do. No.

He continues along the sea, past where the buildings thin out and eventually stop, further than he means to, but eventually gets to a very small stretch of beach, only a metre or two of rock and sand between larger bits of rock, smoothed over centuries and millennia by the water. Satisfied with this find, he rolls out the blanket next to the rock, where he can lean against it as he reads. He shrugs his coat off, folding it neatly and resting it on the blanket beside him. It won’t do to get sand in it, not again. He unbuttons the sleeves of his shirt, rolling the up to his elbows. It’s a little scandalous, certainly, but there are no one about. He is free to read and relax for as long as he pleases.

A little while later, a splash rips him from his book. It is an account of the travels of an explorer, talking of fascinating places Aziraphale knows he will never see. He looks up, but there is nothing. Probably only a seagull making a poor landing. Yes, that must be it. Again, he slips into the vivid descriptions of far off islands, entirely undiscovered. Well, probably discovered by the people who live there, that is certainly somewhat of an issue in this writing, but there are a very certain type of people who dedicate themselves to years at sea to explore the world, and somewhat unfortunate writing and views is something Aziraphale has to be willing to compromise on in order to be able to get as close to these places as he can. It makes him long for them, for travel, books like this, though he knows it would not go well were he to travel in real life. Not only does he in no way have the funds, nor the will or energy to work his way, but it seems like it would be terribly stressful. And he gets seasick. No. Books are the best way to experience the world. Safe. Comfortable.

Aziraphale has run the bookshop that was opened by his father for years. It’s the only thing he knows, really. Finding new books, lovingly repairing old ones, gently suggesting to customers that no, actually, they might be better off leaving that first edition in the window where they found it. It is a relatively quiet life, but he is satisfied. A little lonely, perhaps, but people are generally a lot more tiring in real life than they are in books. He has always thought that unfortunate. 

There is another splash, louder, and then a yelp. Like someone hurt, a voice. Oh dear. Aziraphale hesitates a moment, but he has to help. Doesn’t he? He does. Carefully he slips a bookmark in between the pages, and gets to his feet.

“Hello?”

Silence.

“Is there anyone there? Are you hurt?”

The is a wet dragging sound, then a thump, a groan. He has to investigate. Inelegantly he clambers onto the smooth rock, scrabbling for purchase, his knee impacting with the rock in a way he feels certain will leave a bruise later. By the time he gets to the top, where he can look down on the unpleasantly rocky spot of beach below, he barely catches the last of something dark and slick slipping below the surface. He can see the dark shape as it heads for deeper waters, and it’s not quite like anything he is familiar with, sleek, quick. But the odd thing is, when he looks down at the rocks below, there are wet shapes, like something being dragged across them. Even more worrying, there is a wet hand print. Distinctly human. He looks out at the water, frowning, squinting against the sun, but the thing is gone. He clambers down on the other side, bending down to investigate it further. Already the warmth of the sun is starting to dry it out from the edges, but when Aziraphale holds his own hand next to it, they are roughly the same size. So. Not, as he feared, a child that had been taken by someone. Good. 

He looks out at the water for a while longer, but there is nothing more to be seen of whatever it was. A creature, certainly, of some sort. The only logical thing would be a seal, but those, generally, do not have human hands. And he is very certain that is what he saw. With a last glance he retreats back to his book. Whatever was in distress appears not to be so any longer, or else it is quite beyond Aziraphale’s capabilities to help. He stays nearly until sunset, leaving only so getting home will not be hindered by the dark. And, well, also because his stomach starts to complain it’s been a tad too long since lunch.

-

From the water Crowley watches the strange human leave. It had invaded Crowley’s beach, where they had managed to be left alone for the few weeks they have been stuck here so far, in the cold. They let themselves breach the water as the human disappears. Worrying. It had heard them. Had, if what Crowley has picked up of this strange language so far, asked if they were hurt. Were they? No. A crab got to interested in their fingers. Then Crowley’s very sharp teeth got interested in the crab. They pick a bit of shell from between their teeth with a clawed finger. Still, this human seemed less like a predator than the rest of its species. Does that mean it is prey? Perhaps if it comes back, Crowley will find out.


	2. Territorial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes(?) Meet at last. Or like. Three days later.

It's three days before Aziraphale returns to the small beach. He's in a much fouler mood now, Gabriel having come along to visit and offer "advice" on Aziraphale's business practises. Gabriel being his very much more successful cousin, having built up a small business empire doing, well, goodness knows what. And, his being related to Gabriel, his comparatively lower success rate, his failure to make sufficient amounts of money, apparently somehow reflects poorly on Gabriel, because they share the Fell name. It is, of course, utter nonsense, but it is hard, nevertheless, not to take it all a bit personally.

All Aziraphale wants is to be left alone. Given space to collect his books, and, when absolutely unavoidable, sell a few. So. He is going back to the newly discovered private little beach to read until he calms down, possibly monstrous sea creatures be damned.

He finds it deserted, much like last time. It is hidden behind a thicket, requires a little navigation to find, so it is perhaps not so strange. That's fine, that's excellent. A private place to read in the sun? Delightful. Perhaps he ought to bring a parasol the next time, his skin had been a little red and irritated after the last time.

Aziraphale has been sat reading for ten minutes before it occurs to him to check whether he truly is alone. This time, he doesn't call out. If it truly is some creature, as large as it had appeared below the water, then he does not wish to needlessly alert it to his presence. 

He clambers up the rocks, attempting not to make too much noise, and gasps softly. The thing, the creature, is like nothing he has ever seen. It is part man, part something else. A slender, pale torso, the head hidden by a mess of dark red waves of hair, disappearing into what seems like a tail of black and red scales. Like a fisherman's tale of a mermaid, only there is nothing much fish-like about this creature. It appears more like the tail of a snake stuck onto the upper body of a man, only the very tip of the tail flattens, becomes something like a paddle. For swimming, it must be. He leans slightly closer, too fascinated to be afraid, but his movement sends a small pile of pebbles scattering down, several of them hitting the creature.

There is a split second before anything happens, in which Aziraphale has the time to think oh, followed by a rather more rude word, and he hopes, fervently, that somehow the creature's slumber is too deep for this to wake it. Then, several things happen very fast. The creature heaves itself up, and Aziraphale only has time to register the concepts of yellow and sharp before he suddenly finds himself slammed to the ground, his head thunking painfully against the rock beneath him.

Claws dig into his wrists, and his eyes are squeezed shut, hoping not to have to see his imminent demise straight in the eye. He hears a loud hissing sound, feels it too, cold breath smelling like brackish water. There is a heavy weight pinning him to the ground, something that feels rather like a tree trunk on his legs in several places. The tail, he realises. This creature is enormous, at least three metres long.

When a few seconds pass without his dying, without sharp teeth sinking into his soft, vulnerable flesh, he opens one eye, trying to do so stealthily, as if the creature's face is not right above him. Large yellow eyes, slitted like a cat's- no, like a serpent, of course like a serpent, are looking down at him, brows furrowed. The creature is watching him, rows of sharp needle fangs bared, but does not seem as if it is intending to attack Aziraphale immediately. Only, it seems wrong. Creature seems wrong, because other than the sharp teeth, the full yellow eyes without whites, this is the face of a human man. Unearthly and strange, yes, but a man. Which means it can, perhaps, be reasoned with. It is, at the very least, worth an attempt. 

"I'm terribly sorry," Aziraphale begins, shakily, "I did not mean to disturb you, I was simply curious- I- I think perhaps I saw you, heard you, a few days ago, yes? And I merely wanted to see, and then I tripped, and, well. Here we are. But be assured, I mean you no harm, I swear, I will in fact, go so far as to say I'll do anything of you have it in you today to not, ah, eat me. Or murder me."

He rambles, and it occurs to him halfway through that there is no godly reason why this creature, this merman? Snake man? Should speak or understand English. He debates trying French, only he never quite got the hang of it, and it does not seem any more likely the creature should speak this either. He is just about to close his eyes and wait for death again when the creature replies.

"My beach," it hisses.

It is very clear, from the sound, that English is not its first language, but why on god's green earth should it be. Still, it does seem to understand, which is good. Anything- any _one_ who can be reasoned with is a little less terrifying than some wild monster.

"Oh! Oh I am terribly sorry, I did not realise," Aziraphale says, although he has his doubts that this sea creature owns real estate.

"My beach," it, or he, reiterates.

"Yes, absolutely, and I will certainly leave you be if only you allow me to do so," Aziraphale promises.

"Anything?" he asks, voice hoarse.

"Err," replies Aziraphale hesitantly, beginning, now, to regret this offer.

"Want fish."

"Fish," Aziraphale repeats, dumbly, "are, uh, I do not mean offence my good man, but- are there not sufficient fish in, ah, that is to say, the sea?"

"Not a man," the creature says.

"Oh, my apologies. A-" he hesitates, debating with himself what to say, before sensing it is perhaps best not to assume, "what, then, if you do not mind, are you?"

The creature hesitates.

"Crowley."

"Crowley? Is that your name?"

This seems somehow unlikely, too human, too English.

"You can call me Crowley," is Crowley's non answer.

"All right. Crowley. My, uh, my name is Aziraphale. It is a pleasure- ah, excepting your very lovely sharp claws inside my wrists, to meet you."

Crowley, to his- no, not his. Their? Crowley, to their credit, retracts their claws, and loosens their grip, lifting themself up to tower over Aziraphale, the solid, unmoveable weight of their tail still keeping Aziraphale in place. But it is certainly progress.

"Thank you, Crowley."

"Assssiraphale," Crowley repeats, turning the z into a long hiss.

"Exactly," Aziraphale says, feeling buoyed by what is almost seeming now like a polite interaction.

Minus, perhaps, the fangs, and the small wounds ringing his wrists now.

"Now. What sort of fish is it you wish for me to bring you that you cannot get for yourself?"

"Dry fish. Not wet. Crunch."

"Ah. Yes, I can see how that would be a challenge to obtain, yes. But I saw there was a ship from Bergen a few days past, so it should be possible, yes."

He does not suggest that Crowley dry fish themself, not yet. Perhaps if he can gift them with a rack for the purpose. Wait. What is he thinking? Why would he possibly return? Only- only there is so terribly much he could learn from Crowley. Where are they from? What, exactly, are they? Are there other kinds like them? They are, if a little quick to anger, such a fascinating creature. Or person. Aziraphale is not entirely sure yet, but perhaps both is the most accurate.

"Good. Good fish. Crunch," Crowley repeats.

"Indeed. If, ah, you would be so kind as to let me go, then I shall return with some dry fish as rapidly as I possibly am able, I promise you."

Crowley frowns, then seems to realise, slithering off of Aziraphale's legs. 

"Thank you, dear b- err. Thank you, Crowley. I very much appreciate you not killing me."

"Don't kill humans. Taste bad. Humans kill Crowley."

The idea that Crowley is familiar with the flavour profile of human flesh is, of course, deeply alarming, but that is a thought to be panicking over later, at a safe distance from those teeth and claws.

"Oh? I can promise you that is not true of all of us. Not, at any rate, of me. Though yes, some humans are indeed rather awful."

"Come. Fish."

"Right, yes, of course. I will return as soon as I am able, but I may not be able to get any before tomorrow. But I will return with it, I swear."

Crowley merely watches him, now, and so Aziraphale, at last, dares to move. He winces, wrists stinging sharply, shoulders and head aching, clearly bruised, but very grateful not to be fish food. Snake food? Either.

-

Crowley watches the human Aziraphale clumsily descend from the rocks, head cocked. The human speaks a lot, too much, too many words, and Crowley doesn't understand all of it. They picked up a lot from their captors of the long journey here before they managed to escape, but their language was a more straightforward one.

"No!" they hiss, as Aziraphale is about to pick up the square of paper.

They slither down the rocks onto the hot sand, not quite close enough to touch, but nearly.

"I'm sorry?" Aziraphale asks, sounding alarmed.

"The- it stays. To make you come back."

"I- my book? Are you certain? It is quite valuable. Ah, but that is the point. To make sure I return it. Yes, I see. All right. Only- only please do not get it wet? It will get ruined, you see."

"Not wet," Crowley agrees.

Aziraphale puts on more useless layers of fabric, and, with a look over his shoulder, leaves through the thicket that separates the beach from the hostile world of the humans. Perhaps it is not so bad, a human finding their beach, if the human can bring them fish. Not to mention, the human was very warm. Perhaps Crowley can exploit this somehow.

When Crowley is certain Aziraphale is not returning immediately (perhaps the price of being almost undetected by humans is that dry fish is further away), they return to their nice sun spot, down on the other side of the rocks, where water has smoothed out a hollow, perfect for coiling up in to soak all the heat and sun into their skin. They bring Aziraphale's dry square, interested to see what the human intended to do on his beach. What he did, all day a few days ago. It must be something fairly fascinating, because he sat entirely still, staring transfixed. Almost the same way that Crowley watched him.

Coiling back up into their warm, sunny spot, so comfortable their eyes nearly slip closed, they examines the object. What had Aziraphale called it? Book? It is a square, made of something like dry skin. Crowley has seen things like it, in old, sunken ships, but those were wet, disintegrating. This seems different. It's solid, the dry skin having a funny shape, like a scar, only in a different colour than the rest. There are patterns, which Crowley traces with a claw. It leaves little lines in the dry skin which do not go away. Perhaps they should not make more.

They open the book, as they had seen Aziraphale do, and inside it is pale, like a series of dried leaves, only softer, more easily manipulated, and covered in very small patterns. They seem partially to repeat, but they are entirely meaningless. Crowley looks at the next leaf looking thing, but it is the same, and so they continue looking, until they find one where the dark lines coalesce into an image. It is lines and curves, dotted occasionally by more of the strange patterns. How can Aziraphale spend so much time looking at this? There is no meaning to be found, no prey, no nice sunny spot in which to lie.

Humans, Crowley decides, make no sense. Some come in big ships and catch them in nets, locking them in small wooden caves for what felt like a life time, out of the water, giving them barely enough fish to live. Others seem almost willing to please, agreeing to bring Crowley dry fish, and are warm, and have strange hair like a cloud. Crowley prefers the latter, they think. 

Further exploration of the book reveals pictures that look like fish, and other animals. The ones from above. Birds. Creatures Crowley has never seen before. Either real or imagined, they cannot tell. Maybe it was the pictures that so fascinated Aziraphale. There are no one like Crowley. Probably for the best. Better few humans know they exist.

As the sun grows hotter with the afternoon, Crowley grows sleepy. They tuck the book safely inbetween their coils, where no predators or less savoury humans can get it, and curl up properly. To wait. For dry fish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beach in question is essentially a specific beach on an island in Southern Norway stuck onto the eastern side of Southampton, a town chosen mainly because I have lived there and vaguely know what it looks like. Not, admittedly, in the 1800s, but take away the car parks and shopping centres and that's got to be pretty similar.  
> Also, although I too feel that no gender is the optimal gender, this is my first story writing someone using they pronouns, and I did catch myself fucking up at least twenty times, and also I am writing this on a phone at work so editing is hard, so if I accidentally left a he in reference to Crowley in their pov, I apologise.


	3. Graphic Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to draw them. For clarification.


	4. Fish Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale returns to Crowley, bearing gifts of much fish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some mild period typical referenced homophobia

With a gasp, Aziraphale wakes. In his dream, he had been trapped in endless dark and spiralling coils, winding their way around him, ever shifting yet holding him close, unable to move. It should be a nightmare. Certainly it is a nightmare. Must be, mustn't it? And yet it hardly felt like one. In fact, certain parts of Aziraphale's anatomy seem rather enamoured with the concept. A coincidence, surely. Merely an automated physical reaction.

He brushes it off, ignores it, because that is what he does best. Always has been. His particular preferences are, he learned early on, entirely unacceptable, and so he has learned to simply shut that part pf himself down, bury it. There are many other pleasures and delights in life, so surely he can do without that particular one. And, well, if today is any different it is simply because he is unused to being pressed into the ground by a reasonably manshaped being. Whose human parts, at the very least, were rather pleasing. 

It has been- it has been too long to think about. Perhaps if he lived in a slightly larger town, if he moved to London things would be a little easier, but no. This is where his shop is, and comparatively the rent on a building of equal size in London would be too much. This one, after all, is inherited, the only reason he has been able to stay afloat and somewhat comfortable. But as Gabriel reminded him two days past, that won't last forever. 

Shaking off sleep, he goes about washing, getting dressed. He had been able to acquire Crowley's very desired dried fish yesterday, a great big crate of it, but by the time he did so it was very late. It stands, now, in the back room of his shop, where it adds an absolutely horrific reek to the room. One would have thought that drying and salting the fish would make it smell less, but alas, almost the opposite appears to be the case. On the bright side it is likely to scare away customers. On the significantly less bright side, it has a similar effect on Aziraphale himself.

He would deliver it at once, but by the time he has gotten down to the shop, and made himself a cup of tea, there is already a customer, waiting impatiently, apparently ignoring Aziraphale's listed opening hours. In their fairness they are rarely accurate. With a sigh, Aziraphale goes to open up.

It turns out, despite the fish odour, to be an inordinately busy day, both with customers, and merchants coming with cases of books they would like to sell him, and in the end it is early afternoon before he is able to get away. He feels bad, both because he has been breathing in the awful oceanic stench which he has not been able to tune out, and because Crowley must be worrying that he lied.

He quickly comes to regret the sheer quantity of fish he has bought, as the crate is very heavy, and lifting a stack of books from one room to the next is something entirely different than carrying one for half an hour. He has to take breaks. Still, if Crowley stays happy, then hopefully, Aziraphale will be allowed to stay for a little while, to learn more about them.

He is sweaty and tired, arms and back aching by the time he gets to the little beach. This time, as he approaches, Crowley is waiting for him, laying on top of the rock formation, chin resting on their folded arms, tail draped gracefully around them.

"Assssiraphale," they greet, eyes flicking to the fish, and they lets themself fall to the sand, impossibly elegant.

"Good afternoon, Crowley. I am sorry it took so long, but there simply so many customers and-" and then he gives up, because Crowley isn't listening, and probably has no concept of commerce.

They hover over the crate, lifting up a piece of dried cod filet, and sticking most of it in their mouth. Apparently they do not eat like a snake, otherwise the delight of crunchy foods would likely be lost on them.

"Is it all right?" Aziraphale asks, finding that he is rather anxious that Crowley shall enjoy their prize.

"Good. Crunchy," Crowley says, muffled by a mouthful of the fish.

Apparently manners are not the thing in their qwhat? Sea snake human community? So Aziraphale stands, waiting for them to finish. It takes Crowley a few minutes, getting through five or so of the pieces of fish, before they seem satisfied enough that other things can be considered.

"I am glad it was enjoyable," Aziraphale offers, with an amused smile.

"Fish good," Crowley agrees, then pauses, and adds, "Aziraphale good."

And although the intention is likely more complex and less fully meant than the broken English implies, it inspires a surge of emotion in Aziraphale. 

"Thank you, Crowley."

Crowley slithers off, right up the rock, barely using their arms to pull themself at all, and disappears for a moment. Aziraphale doesn't question it, merely waits, wondering to himself how long it will be before he can get the smell out of his bookshop, not to mention his coat, and whether this will become a regular thing. Should that be the case he will have to figure out some better storage.

A flash of red catches his eye, and Crowley slithers back down again, Aziraphale's book under their arm.

"Here. Book. Not wet."

Aziraphale accepts the book, which does indeed appear dey, though it has some scratches on the cover that look suspiciously like claw marks.

"Thank you, Crowley, I appreciate your taking such good care of it."

"Explain," Crowley demands.

"Err, explain what, exactly?"

Crowley's brow is furrowed, their eyes, luminous and shining like gold in the afternoon light, looking down at the book in Aziraphale's hands.

"Explain book."

"Oh. Oh! You- ah, your kind, do you not have writing?"

"Writing?"

Aziraphale gestures to the letters on the cover.

"Writing. Symbols representing words? See, this says, The Travels and Explorations of Northern Africa."

Crowley squints at the letters.

"How?"

Which Aziraphale has to think about for a moment. He sits down, on the sand, regretting not bringing a blanket this time, but then all his clothes will likely have to be washed anyway. Crowley joins him, back against the rocks, tail a loose curl, spread out to best catch the sun. They push their hair back, the better to see. It is a truly striking colour, matching the red of their belly scales. Now, looking closer, Aziraphale notices that the black scales spread, a little, tapering off rather than stopping abruptly, though there are little clusters of them in spots on their shoulder, down their arms, and two on the side of their neck, just below their jawline.

"Writing?" Crowley prods, and Aziraphale becomes aware he is staring.

Only Crowley's face is fascinating. All sharp features, accentuated by the snake eyes, the fangs, but yet bearing the appearance of a man, a being of Aziraphale's age. There is something entirely incongruous about the little forehead wrinkles, the lines around their eyes. As if something as inhuman as them ought to stay untouched by the ravages of time. Aziraphale wonders how old they are.

"Sorry. Yes. All right. So each letter, these little symbols here, represents a sound. See this? The triangle with the little line through it, means a."

"A," Crowley repeats, a look of concentration on their face.

"Yes, exactly, and then you put them together to make words."

"Why?"

"Err. Well, to communicate things. Long things. Stories."

"Slow. Why not talk?"

"Well, yes, possibly, when writing them down it is, indeed, slower than speaking, but this way, you see, the person that wrote this cam communicate to me what these far-away places are like without being anywhere near me."

"Oh."

This seems, somehow, to sadden Crowley. Perhaps it is the idea of distant lands. Perhaps Crowley is not from here.

"Are you- are you from a place far away?" He asks, trying to keep his tone both casual and gentle and unsure whether this registers with Crowley at all.

"Yes. Far far."

"Where?"

"Far. Don't know. Where warm water."

"Oh. Oh, is that why you are spending so much time on land? Or- or do you always? I had thought, originally, that you were a sea-" he stops himself from saying creature, "that you lived in the sea?"

He gestures vaguely at Crowley's gills as an explanation. Some creatures, of course, breach the two, but most creatures with gills he would have thought were entirely aquatic, not able to breathe dry air.

"Yes. Water here cold. Home... Home warm. More time in water."

"How did you come to be here?" Aziraphale asks, though he suspects the answer cannot be good.

"Net. Stuck. Sailors. Ship. Locked in. Many full moons."

"Oh," Aziraphale replies softly, his fears confirmed, and he puts a hand on Crowley's arm without even thinking.

Their skin, though warmed by the sun, is still quite cool compared to Aziraphale. Poor creature, taken away from their home and delivered to such a cold and hostile place as the South of England must be to them. Crowley doesn't flinch away from the touch, as Aziraphale might have expected, instead leaning into it.

"Aziraphale warm."

Again a flush spreads across Aziraphale's face, and it really is a sign of how frightfully lonely he is, that Crowley complimenting a quality he shares with all mammals, and more, warms his heart so.

"Ah, yes. Warm blooded, that helps a little. I am terribly sorry such a thing happened to you, Crowley. I assume you escaped, that they did not simply let you go?"

"Escaped."

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale repeats, "that is horrible. And there is, I assume, no way for you to return?"

Crowley looks at him, looks helpless.

"Don't know where."

"I understand. Oh. Oh, I would very much like to hell you, if you would let me, but I do not know how. It is not exactly as if it would be easy for you to stow away on a ship for months, especially with no idea of where you come from."

Crowley looks at him, a puzzled look on their face.

"Is anything the matter?"

"Aziraphale want help?"

Aziraphale nods.

"I do wish to help, yes. I- I understand why you reacted a tad defensively the other day, but you seem a lovely- err. Person. And I cannot help but feel somewhat guilty that humans are the cause of your displacement, imprisonment and misery. But as I said, I do not know how. Of course, if, like the fish, there is anything I can bring you to make things easier, please let me know. I fear starting a fire might attract much attention, but summer isn't going to last all that much longer. This is, after all, England. I do not know."

Crowley's face is contorted in concentration, and it occurs to Aziraphale, at last, that perhaps his way of speaking is slightly too verbose for someone who only rarely puts together three words in a row.

"I want to help, but don't know how," he tries to clarify, and Crowley nods.

"Aziraphale good."

"That's- I would like to try to be, yes."

"Bring fish. Help. Good."

"Well, I- thank you, Crowley. To be fair, you did not give me all that much of a choice, but I am glad you appreciate it."

Crowley frowns, mouth moving, as if trying to find the words. Aziraphale glimpses the needle sharp fangs again, strange and threatening and entirely at odds with their expression.

"Crowley bad?"

"No," Aziraphale insists, with more fervour than he perhaps intended, "you are not bad. Scary, at first, but not bad. Unexpected? Strange? I must admit, I have never seen anything, anyone at all like you, but that is certainly not your fault. And as you said, I intruded on your beach."

"My beach," Crowley agrees, "Aziraphale allowed."

They do not say anything with all that much feeling, perhaps an artefact of their language (for surely they must have one, if they can learn English) being so different, but it is hard for Aziraphale not to take it as a gesture of something akin to friendship, and he feels a wave of affection for this creature, though the claw wounds on his wrists have barely started healing.

"I am very grateful for that," Aziraphale tells them warmly, taking one of Crowley's cold hands in both of his.

He does so slowly, giving Crowley time to pull away, but they don't. There is slight webbing between their fingers, up to the first knuckle, and sharp, short claw like nails scrape against Aziraphale's skin, but without sinking in this time.

It is odd, how quickly their interaction has progressed, and Aziraphale wonders perhaps if this is because taking away all the customs and barriers of society makes interactin easier. Like when he was a very small child, able to make a new best friend within an hour of meeting them. And Crowley is so... so honest? Without any need for pretense. Without any rules to tell them how they can and cannot behave. Aziraphale appreciates it, though parts of it frighten him, too. How easy he trusts this creature of terrifying strength not to change their mind and eat him.

When the light starts to wane, and Aziraphale's stomach begins to remind him very audibly that it is past time for supper, and after he has refused Crowley's generous offer of a piece of dry fish (he had a taste, earlier, because he hadn't tried it before, but it is not for him), he rises.

"I have to leave now," he tells Crowley, who, rising up on their tail to tower above him, pouts.

It looks very odd, and strangely endearing.

"Come back?"

"If you want me to, I will of course come back, yes."

"Fish?" Crowley asks, looking hopeful.

"And bring you more fish if I can find it, yes, I promise. I cannot guarantee it will be tomorrow, but soon?"

"Soon," Crowley agrees.

Dry fish lasts forever, yes? It probably won't spoil. Or perhaps Crowley intends to finish the entire crate in a day or two. It seems enormous amounts to Aziraphale, but Crowley is large, his tail a huge solid mass, which presumably needs proportionally more fuel.

Back home, in the small space above the shop, Aziraphale wonders how he can help Crowley. Certainly this place is warmer, but it is small, and it is not as if Crowley would be able to leave, even if Aziraphale should manage to get them here unseen, under the cover of darkness. His shop is rather central, after all. How does one help a sea serpent person stranded in the wrong part of the world? As many books as he has, Aziraphale doubts that he will be able to find an answer in any of them. He will simply have to work it out on his own.


	5. Aziraphale Warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley explores the benefits of befriending a warm blooded creature

Crowley waits. They aren’t used to waiting. Usually, this is just being. Laying in the sun, sinking into the cool waters to hunt and eat, coming back onto land to lie in the sun some more for a post lunch nap. But now, it feels like waiting. Waiting for Aziraphale. 

It has been some considerable time since they had anyone to interact with. The humans that kept them locked in the ship were cruel, yes, but not in person. They were cruel by their absence, by the fact Crowley could only hear them, outside. Hear them talk about the horrific monster they kept. It took a while before Crowley understood enough to realise they were talking about them. As if they weren’t the ones who had torn Crowley from their home, locked them up in this nightmare of a dark and hostile wooden cave. 

Before that, it had been a while since Crowley had seen any of their kind. They do not live like the humans appear to, on top of each other, crowded in, and Crowley had been on a quest, of sorts. Had been exploring a new area, looking for… well. They had been looking for something new, something exciting. And moons of captivity was certainly new. 

A seagull screeches above, circling the beach lazily. It’s cloudy today, no sun to bask in, but land is still warmer than the sea. They hate it. Hate that being in the sea, which is supposed to be home, feels so hostile now. Here. Hate that the sun feels distant, too, compared to home. There they could lie on the sun warm beach for hours, warm and comfortable and safe from intruders. There are few humans where their kind make their home. Stretches of ocean dotted with tiny little islands, undiscovered and untouched by humans. Humans and their need to construct, to change, to take nature and remake it in their image.

Crowley thought they hated humans. But now? Now maybe they only hate some of them. Most of them. The ones that aren’t Aziraphale. Because this is a human who brings him fish. Who wants to help. It had frustrated Crowley a little, when Aziraphale came back, how difficult it is to talk to him. His speech is more complex than the sailors’ was. Or uses more and different and longer words, at the very least, ones Crowley cannot understand, not yet. Their grasp of the language, the human language, is weak, and it feels like trying to swim through sand. Maybe it will get better if they keep trying, if they keep speaking to Aziraphale, but the human language is so very different from their own, structurally, the sounds flat and soft and strange. No hissing sounds at all, no clicks, no signs. 

Sometimes ships will pass by Crowley’s beach, and then they hide. In the water, down where they cannot see them, or else farther up on land, in the foliage, keeping their bright red ventral scales down to the ground, hiding their hair, bright and visible from afar. There is a worry, because of course there is, that the sailors will come back for them. Will hunt them down. Crowley had not been there for so very long before Aziraphale came. Long enough to despair, but not long enough to have any sort of plan of how to leave. How to get home. 

Aziraphale wants to help Crowley. This is puzzling, strange. Unusual, Crowley thinks, for a human, but perhaps they have simply met mostly very bad humans. Maybe more of them are like Aziraphale, although they do not think so. Aziraphale seems special. With his soft warmth, which Crowley finds they badly wish to take advantage of, and his fluffy white hair, which Crowley wants to know how feels in their fingers. Like clouds look?

It is several days before Aziraphale returns, but when he does so it is carrying another, but smaller, crate of dried fish. Which is good, because Crowley ran out the day before. There is still regular fish, of course, they catch those, swallow them whole, but the taste, the crunch, is good. Crowley is in the sea, having just swam around the area, checking to make sure no ships are lurking, no bad sailor humans hiding on land, when they see Aziraphale, face flushed with exertion, setting the crate down next to the rock wall. He looks around, frowns, and climbs the rocks clumsily to check where Crowley likes the best to sleep.

Crowley swims back quickly, heaving themselves up onto the rocks with a splash, and sees Aziraphale’s face light up in a smile. It is a very nice smile, Crowley thinks, even if his teeth are strange and flat, and there is too much white in his eyes. It makes Crowley’s heart do funny things, a strange reaction. Like eating bad shellfish, only… Only they want it more.

“Hello, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, face beaming like the sun.

Perhaps, in the absence of the sun, Crowley can bask in Aziraphale’s warmth.

“Aziraphale. Back.”

“I am,” Aziraphale agrees, “how are you?”

Crowley wrings some of the water out of their hair.

“Cold.”

“Oh, of course. No sun today, hmm? I’m afraid that is somewhat the norm here in England. But look, regarding getting you home, or at least working out where it is your home might be, I’ve had an idea.”

Crowley slithers closer, leaving wet trails across the rocks, until they are close to Aziraphale, raising themselves up so they can look into his eyes. They are the colour of the ocean today, stormy blue grey. Focused entirely on Crowley.

“Idea?”

Aziraphale stares at him for a moment before blinking, and replying.

“Yes. Look, you live in the ocean, yes? And I have a lot of books on marine life, hazard of living by the seaside, I fear, and some of them are illustrated. And you must- I imagine you must, surely, know a lot of fish, yes? Must recognise them, and so I’ve brought a book of them. With, with illustrations, pictures. So if we find the ones you recognise, then look up where they live, and the place they all have in common must be somewhere in the vicinity of where you live, right?”

Crowley frowns, trying to work out exactly what Aziraphale means. He uses so many words, and Crowley just doesn’t recognise many of them. Aziraphale seems to realise, though, gesturing for Crowley to follow him back down to the beach. He has a piece of cloth, which he unrolls to unveil another book. He opens it, turning leaves until he gets to a picture of a fish.

“Look here,” he says, gesturing to it, “do you recognise this fish?”

Crowley peers at it, but it seems strange. Long and thin and with an unfamiliar pattern along its scales.

“No.”

“Right. Well, it says here it lives in- oh. The North Sea. Yes, well, I suppose we already knew that, but if we find some you have seen before, maybe that means they live where you live, yes?”

Crowley nods hesitantly.

“And then if we find some of those, we can look up where those live, and maybe we will get closer to finding out where your home is!”

Aziraphale seems very excited about his idea, so Crowley nods and tries to look positive. They still don’t know how they would ever get home. Can they even swim that long? Such long stretches are bound to be cold, and if they cannot get to land, cannot have somewhere to soak in some heat, then… Well. It doesn’t seem like it would be a good experience.

“Yes,” Crowley agrees hesitantly.

“Splendid!”

The book, it turns out, does not include any fish Crowley has seen before. Or rather, none of the ones that live at home. There are fish they have found and hunted here, but that is not very helpful.

“Well,” Aziraphale says, his enthusiasm a bit deflated by now, “at least we know it’s not in Europe. Perhaps not unexpected, but I had thought maybe the Mediterranean… There are tales from there, you know. Of mermaids.”

“Mermaids?”

“Yes, they… They look a bit like you, an upper body that looks like a human, a lower body like the tail of a fish. It’s not the same, of course, but I thought maybe… Maybe it was inspired by someone like you, misidentified, perhaps.”

“No fish tail,” Crowley insists, thumping their tail against the sand for emphasis.

“No, I know, I know. That’s- that’s not what I meant. Only… Oh, I don’t know. There are many tales, among humans, of creatures like you. Many variants, half human, half any other sort of animal. Horse or goat or eagle.”

“Not half human.”

“No,” Aziraphale agrees, “I am sorry. That is a rather anthropocentric way of looking at it, I’m afraid. We humans see things that look like us and think they must be. I saw you and thought half snake and half humans, but of course you are neither, you are entirely… what is your kind called?”

“No human word,” Crowley says, and then tells Aziraphale.

“Ah. I don’t… I do not believe I could pronounce that.”

“No,” Crowley agrees, “wrong tongue.”

They flick their own out to demonstrate, forked tips wriggling. Aziraphale’s eyes widen for a moment. Fear? Disgust? Surprise? Human faces are so like Crowley’s people’s face, but they are such a different species that expressions might not mean the same thing to them. A faint redness spreads across Aziraphale’s face.

“Oh. Err, yes. Rather.”

Crowley, still cold, curls up tighter. It doesn’t help. Nothing inside them to make any heat. Aziraphale looks at them with what they think might be concern.

“Are you all right?”

“Cold,” Crowley complains.

“Oh, even after drying off? Oh, I’m sorry. Err, hold on.”

He gets up off the piece of cloth he had spread on the ground to sit on, pulling it up, and then sitting back down again, closer to Crowley.

“Come on,” he says, encouraging Crowley to sit closer, and draping the blanket over the both of them.

Crowley hesitates.

“You’re cold, my body makes heat. Easy solution, really. And the blanket keeps the heat in.”

“Aziraphale warm?”

“Aziraphale warm,” Aziraphale agrees with an amused smile, but there is nothing but kindness in it.

So Crowley closes the distance between them, leaning into Aziraphale, sighing as they feel his warmth. Aziraphale puts and arm around them, and oh, he feels so good. Crowley leans close, their head against Aziraphale’s shoulder, draping their tail in a zigzag patterns across Aziraphale’s legs.

“Oh! Oh, very close,” Aziraphale says.

“Too?” Crowley asks.

“No, no it’s fine. I think my legs might fall asleep, but that’s all right.”

Crowley’s claws catch on the fabric that Aziraphale keeps wrapped around him. They think it is for decorative purposes, like braiding shells and shiny rocks into ones hair, like many of their kind does, but they can’t help but wonder what Aziraphale might look like under it. Is the skin as soft and warm everywhere? Do humans truly have no scales to protect them?

They can feel Aziraphale’s heart beat a little faster, but they don’t think it is out of fear or exertion. What, then? The warm fingers stroking the patch of scales on their arm certainly don’t seem like someone trying to gauge danger.

“Is this all right?” Aziraphale asks, “only- only it is…”

He trails off, seeming distracted and fascinated with the feel of Crowley’s scales. Which is understandable. Crowley’s scales are very nice. They shed not too long ago, and they are still new and shiny. Aziraphale’s hands move down, until he is holding Crowley’s hand in his own, fingers brushing over the sensitive webbing, making Crowley gasp softly.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, does that hurt?”

“No. Nice.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, then “oh!”

Redness spreads across his face again, and it looks good. Looks like it means warmth, and comfort. But maybe it heralds and emotion of some sort, Crowley isn’t sure. Since they are this close, Crowley decides to sate their curiosity, reaching up to run their fingers through Aziraphale’s hair. It is soft, as they expected, like nothing in the ocean feels. Aziraphale lets out a soft breath.

“Oh,” he says, again.

“Bad?” Crowley asks.

“No. As you said. Nice.”

Again, Aziraphale’s heart is going quite fast. Maybe it can mean good emotions, too. Crowley hopes so, because they wanted to keep touching this soft, warm human. He seems built a little bit like a seal, they think, layers of softness under the skin to keep him warm. And willing to help keep Crowley warm, too.

Crowley rests their head against Aziraphale’s shoulder again, which seems perfectly designed to nestle into, and feels their breathing slowing down, their eyelids getting heavy. The warmth against their skin and scales, the gentle rise and fall of Aziraphale’s chest, all serve to make Crowley sleepy, and right now, they feel safe enough to do so, and drift off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is based on a specific sea snake, or, at the very least, a specific genus of aquatic snake, and I just looked up where they actually live and. Hmm. They don't look like these snakes, because I want them to look like Crowley, and they're sized up, but otherwise.  
> Also I realised m/m isn't really the ideal tag for this, but other just feels weird, you know? a/m? nb/m? You get the vibe, right. Other just makes it feels like something else. But it's both, now.


	6. Looking for Solutions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale tries to work out how he better can help his serpentine friend

Over the next two weeks, Aziraphale keeps going to the beach to see Crowley as often as he can. It’s nice. They are such a fascinating creature, but even more so, it is that they are becoming a friend. Eventually, they work out that Crowley’s home must be somewhere off the coast of Southeast Asia. This is so far that any thought of Crowley swimming there is slightly absurd, impossible. Aziraphale fantasizes briefly about buying a ship, he and Crowley sailing there, but Aziraphale doesn’t know how to sail, and certainly cannot afford a boat, or to simply leave his life behind for months on end. 

Sometimes, Crowley will ask Aziraphale to read to them. If the sun is warm they will curl up into a spiral of gleaming scales and hair that has flecks of gold in the light. When it’s colder, Crowley will cling to Aziraphale, arms and tail wrapping around him for warmth. Privately, selfishly, these are Aziraphale’s favourite days. Aziraphale has been forced to accept that he does indeed find Crowley attractive, however strange it is. Not only are they not a man, which has always been Aziraphale’s preference, but they are not remotely human. Only… Only they sort of are, aren’t they? In the ways that matter? They have a (mostly) human face, they are undoubtedly a person, if a strange one. And yes, all right, they are also partly a serpent, but nobody’s perfect.

It is affecting his work a little, all this time spent with Crowley, but Aziraphale cannot find the energy to care. Because it’s making him happy, spending time with that lovely, strange creature, and after all, is that not the point? The purpose in life? No one can know, of course, but then that has always been the case with his love life, so that is hardly an issue specific to them.

One day, as he is about to close his shop for the afternoon, so he can have a late lunch and go see Crowley again, Anathema appears, and announces she’s here for tea. She’s a young woman with an interest in some rather rare categories of books, and she has been abusing Aziraphale’s connections with book sellers in London and on the continent to get her hands on some of the rarer ones, and in the process formed a sort of friendship, although Aziraphale has never felt entirely sure whether this was something he ever had a choice in. 

“You’re happy,” Anathema accuses, “I can see it in your aura.”

“Err, right,” Aziraphale replies, because he never quite knows what to say to that sort of thing, even after knowing her for years.

“Why?”

“Can a man not simply be in a good mood?” Aziraphale asks, sipping his very slightly too bitter tea.

She narrows her eyes at him from behind her large, round spectacles. The answer, apparently, is no.

“Is there someone?” she asks, voice slightly softer.

She knows his secret. Saw it in his aura, she claims, the first time they met. She doesn’t mind, doesn’t tell, although Aziraphale feels reasonably sure that everything she knows, her husband knows also, but Newton is possibly the most harmless man Aziraphale has ever met. 

“There might be,” Aziraphale tells her, as if he could meaningfully keep anything secret when evidently all his thoughts and feelings spill out into his aura.

Or maybe she is simply incredibly nosey and talented at snooping and the aura thing is an excuse. Though, with the amount of rare occult books she has him order, that seems somehow more unlikely. So perhaps… Perhaps she knows something about non human creatures? About their existence? But it seems risky, asking, even as much as he trust she means no harm.

“No one you want to tell me about?” she asks when he volunteers no more information.

“I cannot, I’m afraid. It would not be… safe.”

“Right. Yes. Well. I suppose I can only wish you good fortune, then.”

-

“Aziraphale,” Crowley hisses when Aziraphale at last gets to the beach, “late.”

“Yes, I’m terribly sorry. I got a little, ah, held up.”

Crowley slithers down from the rocks, directly into Aziraphale’s personal space. They lean in, sniffing at him.

“Smell like magic,” Crowley announces.

“I do?”

Crowley sniffs again, hooked nose nearly touching Aziraphale’s throat, and Aziraphale’s breathing speeds up. Then they pull back, nod. Which is interesting. Anathema must actually have some of the power she claims, then. At least if Crowley means the same thing by magic as humans do. Strangely, though, this implication of the reality of magic, to some degree or other, feels almost natural. After all, Crowley is real, aren’t they? And they are certainly not like anything Aziraphale has ever known. 

It is a cooler day today, and so when they sit down to talk, Crowley curls close. Aziraphale wraps an arm around them, his hand resting on a spot where skin is disrupted by scattered scales. He marvels, still, at the feeling of another being so close to him. He hadn’t realised how much he had missed it, but he greatly appreciates Crowley’s penchant for close contact, their lack of care for normal personal boundaries. Even if it’s just for warmth, if Crowley doesn’t, can’t, feel quite the same way about him.

“No book?” Crowley asks.

“No book,” Aziraphale confirms, finding that he will accidentally fall into Crowley’s limited speech patterns.

It’s not mocking, never mocking. And besides, Crowley’s English is getting better. 

“If you do not mind me asking, how did you learn to speak English?” he asks, looking at the mess of damp red curls covering most of Crowley’s face.

“English?”

“Yes, the- the language we’re speaking now?”

“Human language.”

“Yes, yes it is. But there are many more human languages, as well. Finnish. Japanese. Nahuatl. Plenty. But this one is English, because the country we are currently in is England.”

Crowley considers this for a moment.

“Listened. Sailors keeping in captivity. Long time. Start understand.”

“Oh! Oh that’s very impressive! And you’re getting better, too, in the short time I’ve known you.”

Crowley makes a noise of agreement.

“Hard. Frustrating. Want… Want say more. No words.”

They sound sad, and Aziraphale can understand that. Not being able to express oneself is hard, to not be able to communicate clearly, beyond a rudimentary level.

“I understand, my dear. But you are trying so hard, and you are absolutely getting better. It gets easier, I think, the more you use the language. And It is not as if I am able to speak any of your language at all. Possibly not even physically able. So clearly, you are the one doing better.”

Crowley makes a soft noise. They move their tail, trying to do so frequently, so they don’t entirely cut off the blood supply to Aziraphale’s legs while still being able to siphon off his warmth. There is something quite comforting about it, the weight of their tail on top of him. 

“What do you think you will do when summer ends? When it gets cold here?”

“Colder?” Crowley asks, confused.

“Yes, it’s- this is more or less the warmest it gets in these parts. In just a few weeks I expect it will get colder. The water doesn’t freeze, not really, but the sun will appear less and less, for a shorter time. Fewer… Fewer seasons quite like that where you are from, I expect.”

“Don’t know,” Crowley says, miserably.

“Yes, I don’t either, I fear. I know I promised to help, but I still do not know how. It is not as if you can just take a boat, is it? And disguising you as a human for the purpose would not work either, I think. Keeping up such an illusion for months on end on a ship, I do not think that is feasible. You can, of course, stay with me when it gets colder, come to my home, but though I live only a few minutes walk from the water it is the part where the ships dock. And it would be hard for you to get away.”

“Aziraphale home warm? Safe?”

Aziraphale nods, running a hand through Crowley’s soft hair, nearly dry now, entirely without thinking. Crowley presses themself a little closer.

“It should be, yes. But it is a small space. A bit much, perhaps, like where you were locked up for months, and that wouldn’t be nice for you at all, I fear. And there is nothing for you to do. Mostly only books.”

“But Aziraphale,” Crowley argues.

Pressed against his chest as they are, Aziraphale worries Crowley will hear his heart beating out some confession of feelings in Morse code. 

“But I will be there, yes. And it will be warm. No fish quite as fresh as those you catch yourself, but reasonably fresh still, from the fishing boats. And safe. As long as- yes. Yes, it will be safe.”

Crowley nods to themselves.

“Stay with Aziraphale. When cold.”

“I would be glad to have you, Crowley. You just let me know when it’s getting too cold for you, and I will work on finding a way to get you to my home unseen. But it should not be too bad for a little while yet, I hope.”

“Not bad bad,” Crowley agrees, the very tip of their tail idly flicking against the sand.

They sit in silence for a while, listening to the screech of gulls, the distant sounds of ships. The waves lap at the sand, nearly reaching up to the two of them. It’s the end of August, now. Still technically summer, though not by much. 

“How much do you need to be in the sea, do you know? If you are to stay, eventually, that would be good to know. Does, err, does your skin dry out? Do your gills hurt? Do you need to breathe that way occasionally? Or no- No they kept you on a ship for months, so you can live on land?”

“Can,” Crowley agrees, “miss swimming. Better in water. Live.”

“I understand. Moving on land is harder, right? And slower? Even though you seem to me to move incredibly fast and elegantly to me.”

“Less fun. No hunting land. No fish.”

“There is a distinct lack of fish on land, yes, I’m afraid that is the case. There are creatures to hunt, but hopefully not too many in my house.”

“Do you mind if I ask,” Aziraphale says a little later, as the sun is getting lower in the sky, and the shadows are getting longer and colder, “what your name is? In- in your language, I mean?”

Crowley straightens a bit, looking up at Aziraphale, and makes a complex pattern of hissing and clicking noises. Aziraphale tries to repeat it, but it sound more like he has a bad cough.

“I like it,” he announces, anyway, although it will take him time, he knows, to tell it apart from any other sound from Crowley’s language.

“Why Crowley?” he follows up, “only it is so… it sound very English. I like it! It’s a good name. But I am… curious.”

“Sailors. Call me Crawly.”

“Oh. On account of your looking like a serpent, I imagine.”

Crowley shrugs.

“Sailors keep birds. Some shiny. Pretty. Call crow. Black feathers pretty. Like scales. So Crowley.”

It’s the longest set of sentences Aziraphale has ever heard him utter, and though many of the smaller words are missing, it’s all perfectly coherent and understandable. 

“I see. Yes, I can see that. They do look a bit as I might imagine you would as a bird. It’s a lovely name. Suits you.”

Crowley doesn’t thank him, Aziraphale isn’t sure they are entirely familiar with the concept in English, but they rub their cheek against his chest, arm slung around his stomach tightening for a moment, and that, in Aziraphale’s opinion, is better.

“Like Aziraphale.”

“Oh, my dear, thank you.”

He rubs Crowley’s shoulder affectionately, in case this better communicates his feelings. Aziraphale isn’t entirely sure what he has done to make Crowley like him, but he is grateful to have managed to do so anyway. Sure, there is the warmth he can provide, the fish, and simply the contrast between him and Crowley’s captors, but there must be something else too. Whatever it is, he hopes he can keep it up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent four hours failing to fall asleep last night, and so, I have now plotted much of the actual plot for this. And I have an ending, which is unheard of for me. Some details to work out still, but I think it might be fun. Fun for me to write, anyway, which frankly is my main concern.


	7. Swim Nice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gets tempted out of his comfort zone by the serpent, and Crowley makes a worrying discovery.

Aziraphale sits on the rock, arms wrapped around his knees. A seagull is perched a few metres away, staring at him with suspicion, and a few of its compatriots circle around, screeching about the finer points of local politics, or whatever it is birds care about. Down in the water, Aziraphale can see the dark shape that is Crowley, nearly breaching the surface, and then plunging back down. They’re hunting, or just enjoying that it is a particularly warm day, and there aren’t likely to be many left. Aziraphale came, just a little while ago, and has been waiting.

Using some of the connection he has been made to forge for Anathema, Aziraphale has acquired some more occult leaning books, hoping to find some sort of solution. He doesn’t know what, exactly, he is looking for. Some magical transportation? Information about Crowley’s people? Whether others like them exist? He just feels as though he needs to be doing _something_ , because the idea of keeping Crowley essentially locked up in his flat for eight months feels cruel.

He can’t help but feel a bit guilty, as if he is somehow taking advantage of Crowley. Of their lack of knowledge of the human world, their inability to go anywhere now, meaningfully. Because, really, he is the only one Crowley has, isn’t he? Not by either of their design, but for safety, it certainly ought to remain so. Or- Or is that something Aziraphale tells himself because he wants Crowley all to himself? But no- no surely, whoever kidnapped Crowley, brought them all the way here, they could not have had good intentions for them. Displaying them, perhaps, as some novelty and charging people? Or dissecting them for science and displaying their corpse? No. No, the money involved in that, if one finds the right people? It’s not safe.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, emphatically, interrupting Aziraphale’s thoughts.

He hadn’t noticed them heaving themselves up out of the sea, slithering up close, water dripping from their hair, making their scales gleam even brighter in the sun. They are looking at him in mild concern.

“Crowley! Hello, my dear. I’m sorry, I was a bit lost in thought.”

“Aziraphale good?”

“I’m fine, my dear.”

Crowley curls themself into something like a sitting position next to him, long tail trailing down the smooth rock, the tip almost touching the surface of the water. They lean on their hands, and Aziraphale can see dark stains around their claws. Successful hunting, then. That’s good.

“Warm long?” Crowley asks.

“I don’t know how much longer it will last, no. Sorry. It depends.”

Crowley considers this for a moment.

“Come swim?”

Aziraphale blinks.

“You want me to come swim with you?”

“Yes. Before cold.”

“I- why?”

“Swim nice. Water good. Aziraphale come swim.”

“I- I have not brought a towel. Or a bathing suit.”

Excuses. Crowley is frowning at him, presumably unfamiliar with these concepts.

“What if someone sees?” he adds, as if, should someone see them, the problem would be an inappropriately dressed Aziraphale, and not Crowley.

“Fish see. Crowley see. Humans no.”

Which is, Aziraphale has to admit, a fair point. The real reason, naturally, is that he doesn’t particularly want to take his clothes off. That he isn’t terribly comfortable with the idea of Crowley seeing him without the clothes he has carefully curated for his own maximum comfort. Which is unfair of him, isn’t it? Because he has never seen Crowley anything but naked. An odd thought.

“Fine,” he says, “all right.”

Crowley looks pleased with themself. Aziraphale starts to unbutton his waistcoat, very aware of the large yellow eyes watching him. He tries to tell himself Crowley isn’t being weird, or voyeuristic, that to someone whose people evidently have not seen the need to invent clothing, there is no inherent breach of privacy in watching someone undress. And Aziraphale could explain, but that would simply make it more awkward.

He sheds his waistcoat, and then his shirt, and trousers, until he is left only in his drawers. He crosses his arms over the swell of his stomach self consciously, but Crowley seems preoccupied with his chest, running a hand through the curling hair there. It’s terribly intimate, of course, but much that Crowley does is, and they don’t seem to mean anything by it.

“Aziraphale soft,” Crowley concludes.

“I, well, yes, I’m afraid so.”

“Soft good,” Crowley clarifies, which is sweet of them, and then adds, “come swim.”

The water is shockingly cold, even on this very temperate day, and Aziraphale lets out an undignified little squeak in surprise. How Crowley isn’t freezing is a mystery. Although, perhaps if one is cold blooded, then the contrast is not so great. He treads water, arms waving, and feels the upsetting sensation of something swimming very close, unseen from here. It’s Crowley, and he is aware that it is Crowley, but childhood encounters with stinging jellyfish have left him paranoid.

They surface, face inches away from Aziraphale, their tail brushing against his legs and making him shiver. The delight in their face, though, makes Aziraphale feel a little less uncomfortable about the whole situation. Their grin shows off razor sharp teeth. Below the surface, he can feel their tail encircling his legs, and he has to try quite hard not to panic at the sensation. 

“Good?”

“I- Goodness, it is quite cold, is it not? But yes, I am… it is certainly invigorating.”

“Come,” Crowley says, and disappears down into the dark waters.

The coils around him loosen, and he hesitates. Takes a deep breath, and tries to let himself sink down beneath the surface. He tries hard to keep his eyes open, but it stings, and distracts him, and water goes up his nose, and he kicks back up to the surface, coughing and spluttering. A few moments later, Crowley surfaces next to him.

“Not come?”

“Oh, my dear, I’m afraid I am not very good at this diving business.”

“Oh.”

They sound disappointed. Of course they do, it is no wonder. Perhaps he ought to attempt to purchase one of those diving suits. Only of course, those too lack manoeuvrability, are large and clunky and difficult to move in. Because he would love to have Crowley show him the underwater world, the place where they feel most at home, even if this colder version likely does not hold a. candle to the tropical waters from where they come.

“I am sorry,” he repeats.

After, they sit on the rock, attempting to dry in the sun. Aziraphale suspects both he and his drawers would dry significantly more quickly if he took them off, but they are not quite at that comfort level yet. At least he is not. He has no idea how that sort of thing works for Crowley. Perhaps he ought to see if he has some books on herpetology and snake anatomy. 

“Will you tell me about your home?” Aziraphale asks, head resting on his folded arms, eyes closed against the sun.

It’s warm enough that Crowley isn’t clinging to him, but their tail is draped partly over Aziraphale’s legs, the feel of cool scales nice against his skin.

“Warm,” Crowley says, pushing themself up onto their elbow to look down at him, “fish bright colours. Big whales, sharks. Sea lighter, few humans. Lots of us, everywhere.”

“Do you mind if I ask, how do your people live? Are there great cities beneath the sea?”

“No cities. More… Travelling. Small group. Mates and… eggs, but later?”

“Children?” Crowley suggests.

“Yess. Mate pairs, mate groups, children. No house, no cave. Always move.”

“Nomadic,” Aziraphale mutters, though Crowley, perhaps naturally, does not seem to understand.

“Did you leave anyone behind?”

Crowley looks confused.

“I mean. Did you have… children? A mate? A family?”

Crowley shakes their head, still wet hair spraying sea water onto Aziraphale. 

“No. Alone.”

“Oh. I-”

He almost says that then at least there is no one worried sick about them, but on second thought that sounds less like a nice thing. Secretly, shamefully, he is a little excited to hear there is no mate. Which is silly. Aziraphale doesn’t know if Crowley likes men, or humans, or is even capable of feelings like those. Although if they live in little family groups they must be, must they not?

“By choice?”

Crowley shrugs.

“Never find… right.”

“Ah, yes. Well, I know the feeling.”

“No mate?”

“No mate.”

“Sad?”

“Not really. I am old enough to have settled. I am… content. I have my shop, my books. What else do I need?”

“Friend?” Crowley suggests.

“Ah, but I have that, do I not?” Aziraphale asks, looking up at Crowley, eyes squinting against the brightness, and he puts a hand on one of Crowley’s, to clarify.

Crowley looks down at their hands, together, and nods.

-

Crowley watches Aziraphale. He has fallen asleep, just for a little while so far, and arm slung across his eyes to keep the sun out. His hair is so light, dry enough that the little curls are standing up again, and they reach out to touch it, gently, so he won’t wake up. Soft. They like his hair. Smells good. 

Despite how much they long for their home, it has been a while since they have thought of their people. They haven’t been part of a group for a very long time, have been mostly on their own. Staying, yes, near others, but not with them. They haven’t missed it, not really. Mostly they have missed their freedom, being able to swim for longer, hunt for their preferred prey. They haven’t ever really wanted a mate, not enough to prioritise looking for one. 

Aziraphale shifts in his sleep, making a soft little noise. Crowley rests their hand on his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, the faint beating of his heart. All of Aziraphale is soft, all rounded curves, where Crowley’s torso is angular, hard. Like they fit. Much as Crowley is not looking forward to the cold, some part of them is excited to see Aziraphale’s home, to spend all of their time with him. It can’t be like the little prison on the ship, can it? Not so dark and cold and miserable? Surely Aziraphale would not live like that?

-

After Aziraphale leaves, when it gets dark, a small boat passes by. It has humans in it, several of them, talking and carrying lanterns. They pass by quite far, initially, but Crowley can see them turn around to come closer, so they slip down into the water, gradual, careful not to make a big loud splash. They watch from below, following the boat for a little while, trying to overhear what the humans are saying. It’s harder, of course, from below, but far safer. Occasionally they see hooked sticks poking down from the side of the boat.

“...is it? Got to be ‘round here somewhere.”

The voices are muffled by the water, and by the metres above Crowley, but still, there is something faintly familiar.

“Been weeks. Thing’s probably long gone. Not gonna hang round here, is it?”

“Well, important people wanted the blasted creature, and it was you let it go, wasn’t it?”

“Let is a strong word…”

“Got into the ale on your watch. Same thing.”

“It was very good ale.”

If Crowley could shiver they would. They recognise those voices. Heart pounding they dive, deep as they can, until they can barely see, can’t hear anything. They find a cluster of rocks on the bottom, wrapping their body and tail around them, staying for a long time. 

Eventually, they swim up, to a space right next to land where they know branches hang low over the water. They surface quiet, slow, just their eyes sticking up above the water. They can’t see the boat any more, and the moon has moved a considerable distance. Perhaps they are gone. Still, despite the cold, Crowley remains in the water, remains awake until the sun rises once more, and they can hide on land.


End file.
